


Perspective: The State of Existing in Space Before the Eye

by thisiswherethefishlives



Category: Star Wars Episode VII: The Force Awakens (2015)
Genre: Anal Sex, Angst, Blow Jobs, Crack, Existential Angst, Fingering, Force Ghosts, M/M, Multi, Smut, Threesome - Han/Han/Han, Threesome - M/M/M, Voyeurism, and yet also very alive, han is dead, the Force works in mysterious ways, this is a really weird mix of tags, this is just... god I apologize because nothing about this was a good idea, what have I done?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-01
Updated: 2016-04-01
Packaged: 2018-05-30 14:47:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,797
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6428482
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thisiswherethefishlives/pseuds/thisiswherethefishlives
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He used to think that he knew things… his place in the universe, how time flowed… hell, he used to think he knew how the force worked. Of course, being killed by your estranged son only to come back as a force ghost… well, kriff.  It changes a man’s perspective.</p>
<p>It turns out that the force works in mysterious ways.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Perspective: The State of Existing in Space Before the Eye

**Author's Note:**

  * For [virtualstars](https://archiveofourown.org/users/virtualstars/gifts).



> Happy belated birthday to virtualstars (who is more than a little to blame for this... along with callay... y'all enable me too much). <3 <3 <3

They’ve been at it for what feels like hours, but time moves differently for the dead than it does for the living. _Everything_ is different, but Han stopped questioning everything a long time ago… at least, it feels like a distant memory, the last time he stopped to ask why.

He used to think that he knew things… his place in the universe, how time flowed… hell, he used to think he knew how the force worked. Of course, being killed by your estranged son only to come back as a force ghost… well, _kriff_. It changes a man’s perspective.

It turns out that the force works in mysterious ways. It’s less of an even flow and more like a damaged pipe - you travel along until you drip out somewhere you never expected. He’s seen the past - he’s seen the future - and he’s seen enough of the present… what he knew as the present… well, he’s seen enough. Enough pain, enough strife.

He prefers it when the force pulls him along without settling on a destination. Bleak, black nothingness taking over, darker than space and more quiet than anything he’s ever known.

The force, though… it has a sense of humor. If not straight out humor, then it’s something a little more twisted and a little more dark… and Han doesn’t want to be stuck on this ride if there isn’t a laugh to look forward to at the end. So, he decided awhile back, the force has a sense of humor. It explains away why the leaky pipe of time and space always leads Han to… well, to himself.

From conception to his final, ragged breaths, he’s tagged along through the entire sordid story of his life more than once, and never in the same order. It’s given him something that he never had the luxury to cultivate while he was still alive.

It’s given him perspective.

From the sidelines, he can watch clearly and without anger or ambition or lust to cloud his line of sight. There’s no room for anything other than thoughtful, if melancholic, meditation.

It’s horrible.

Han has been stood on the sidelines, helpless to do much else than watch, and his pfassking phantom body can’t respond.

There’s no throbbing heat between his legs, no tripping of his pulse, nor any excitement. Indignance is a thing of the past and rage went right out the door with it. Even the scene before him now, which would have gotten him hotter than a hutt on Mustafar, barely rouses any interest at all. It’s not the series of sensual touches that keeps him watching, nor is it the heated looks in their eyes… no, it’s the realization that Han hasn’t lived this moment before. He’d remember this, like he’s remembered everything else. Every other ache of mortal desire and fragile hurt has been like a replay of a beloved holovid, each line and set burned into his memory for eternity. This, though…

It’s important to remember that the force has a sense of humor and that time doesn’t follow the rhymes and reasons laid in place by the living.

Death has opened Han’s eyes, has left him open to possibility, and yet he still can’t believe the scene that’s been laid out before him. As the ambient noise bounces off the metal beams and textured floors of the Millennium Falcon (groans and gasps and the frictionless slide of lube skin against skin), Han can see how the force’s sense of humor finally got one over on him. It’s the ultimate joke - the prank of all pranks - because it’s only after his libido’s been stripped from him that the galaxy and time and whatever else is out there aligns to blow his wastoid mind. It’s only after his _ability_ to participate has been stripped from him that the force decides to throw him a bone.

Or three.

More specifically, the three very different yet vitally similar men fucking in front of him.

Snatched from different times, all willing and eager before him, Han watches himself get fucked. By himself… and, also, himself.

Just thinking about the reality of the situation (if it could be called reality at all) is enough to tilt the balance of everything that Han has ever known. And so, he stops thinking about it and he starts watching. At least, that’s the goal.

He watches as young, firm, unscarred skin gives against calloused fingers. Muscled and weathered shoulders shiver against each other with each drag of a supple tongue as wrinkled and weary hands grasp at narrow hips to fuck at a sharp pace.

There are three of him. _Four_ , if you count his current state, but the only bodies that matter in Han’s eyes are the ones that can feel. If he focuses, he can narrow down the moment that each of the Han’s in front of him was plucked.

The youngest, barely more than a boy, is fresh off his first job. He hasn’t met Chewy yet, hasn’t piloted the falcon yet… Kriff, he hasn’t been with another man before this… and yet, here he is, melting into the situation as if it were the only thing he’s ever known. Han _knows_ that this isn’t the way he lost his virginity. No, not in the lifetime that Han’s been haunting since his death. He’s been to that moment more than once, impartial and bored to the whole affair, as quick and brutal as it had been. More pain than pleasure, was what it was, nothing like the scene before him now.

It makes Han wonder just how much of what he’s seen from his death has been real.

The boy sinks to his knees, more submissive than Han can remember in his life, but there’s a wicked gleam in his eyes that is undeniably _him_. The boy runs the flat of his tongue along the scoundrel’s cock. The scoundrel - and that’s what he was at that age, hardened and cocky with nothing to lose but time and money - weaves his roughened fingers through the boy’s hair to pull him closer. It earns him a glare, but then the boys takes him deep with a hum, all saucy pleasure and power despite the deferential position he’s in.

It’s a wet looking mouth.

Han’s been told about his mouth for years. That it’s made for sin, that it’s made to be filled, that it’s worthy of every dirty thought imaginable… but it’s only now that he’s watching the boy’s lips stretch soft and pretty over the scoundrel’s dick… it’s only when the scoundrel’s lips quirk in pleasure and snark… _stars_ , it’s only now that it feels like more than an empty, messy compliment. It’s clear, now, just how obscene his mouth can be, all lips and tongue and subvocal humming.

It’s enough to make Han want to die all over again, because _logically_ he should be reacting, but his body can’t. He’s little more than scraps, and what has been left behind isn’t enough. For all the stimulation before him, it’s nothing he can give into. There’s no passion. No lust. Only recognition, even as weathered fingers breach the scoundrel to work him open.

Those fingers get the job done, just a series of matter of fact gestures and movements - it’s just shy of too rough, if the scoundrel’s face is any indication, but there’s no cruelty on the old man’s face. He’s remarkably composed, even with the one hand pushing into the scoundrel and the other pressed against the scoundrel’s neck. The pressure forces the scoundrel forward, a gentle arch of body held taut above the boy’s knelt frame.

They make quite the picture. Beautiful isn’t a word that Han would have used to describe himself before, but even his phantom sensibilities can appreciate this moment. The scoundrel, bowed and bent, pushed and pulled by the power of the old man, all while being supported and grounded by the boy. If he were more like Luke, Han might try to tease deeper meaning from their positions, but he’s never been like Luke. Not in that way.

Han’s pulled from his thoughts when a cry is ripped from the scoundrel’s lips, raw and hungry and wounded all at once. The old man’s fingers have been replaced by his cock and the pace has moved from rough to unforgiving. It’s a steady, demanding pace, and from the way that the scoundrel’s started keening, it’s just what he needed.

The old man… well, this version of Han comes with the face he feels most familiar with. It’s the face that he died with, and it may be the nostalgia talking, but it’s the face that feels most like _Han_. More than any of the other faces that he’s visited in his death, this is the one that feels like home.

This is the Han that has known loss. He has known pain and he feels more real than anything else in the moment, and if Han were alive, he’s certain that he would ache from it.

The others - the boy and the scoundrel in equal measure - they don’t acknowledge the old man’s pain, though he wears it like the heaviest of cloaks. Instead, they give of themselves. They give in the submissive bend of the scoundrel’s back and in the tender touch of the boy’s fingertips to the old man’s calves as he takes and takes and takes.

The old man doesn’t make a sound, but Han can read that face easier than anything, and he can see the pain right there with the pleasure and the relief that radiates with every thrust. This version of Han is beyond resistance. It’s evident in the curve of his fingers against his lovers’ skin that this is the only place he wants to be.

The old man craves their touch, yet another thing that links him to Han as he stands to the side. Both alive and dead, they are the same. It’s an eerie thought, one that Han would focus on shaking off, if it weren’t for the familiar tug of the force from somewhere behind him.

The force has a sense of humor, and Han’s seen it manifest in stranger ways than this… but the force has never been so cruel in its humor as it is now, pulling Han from this moment before he’s seen it through.

They’re still fucking as the scene grows dim. Skin and sweat and muffled sighs fade away as Han gets ushered along to another point in his history.

Everything blurs, leaving Han to wonder if any of it was real.

Not that it matters.

It doesn’t. Not really.

Because, for the first time since his death, Han is struck by the realization that _anything_ is possible.


End file.
